


Sherlollipops - Finding Molly

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [201]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, WWI AU, slightly angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>anonymous on tumblr asked: Hey :) I was wondering if you still take prompts? What about this: World War I/Parade's End, Sherlock comes home from the war and wants to find the nurse (aka Molly) who patched him up several times, who will now marry another man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Finding Molly

_London, 1919_

It wasn’t working out the way he’d expected it to. How difficult could it be to find one woman, an army nurse, no less? The military was obsessive about keeping records, and the idea that they’d mislaid everything relating to one woman was laughable. Or rather, it would be if it wasn’t for the fact that she was the one woman in the world he most wanted to find.

Nurse Molly Kathleen Hooper. Born and raised in Sussex, Irish grandmother on her father’s side, moved to London to study nursing, unmarried, fiercely independent. All that he’d deduced during their first conversation; later he learned that she’d received her training at the prestigious St. Bartholomew’s Hospital before volunteering to serve in an overseas hospital during the War. She’d served admirably, and had nursed him back to health on three separate occasions. During their last conversation together, there had been a certain understanding between them, the promise to remain in touch, to write to one another until they could meet again.

None of that had happened. His letters had been returned, marked ‘recipient unknown’; she no longer lived at the last address he had for her, and hadn’t returned to her position at St. Bartholomew’s. If she had no interest in seeing him again, all she needed to have done would be to send a letter stating that, and he would have…well, he would have tried like the devil to get her to change her mind, if he was honest, but he liked to believe that he would have eventually accepted her decision.

If, of course, it _was_ her decision. Gritting his teeth, after three frustrating months of searching, he came to the decision to beard the overprotective, annoying lion in his den.

Mycroft, Sherlock thought angrily, had better have a bloody good reason for all this.

_France, April 1917_

The gunshot wound was painful but hardly life-threatening. Still, there he was, trapped in a hospital bed until he’d healed enough to be allowed to return to England on temporary leave. Once he’d fully recovered, or rather, recovered fully enough to satisfy the army, he’d find himself back in France. Back in the trenches, pretending he was some sort of leader of men. Sherlock Holmes, the ne’er-do-well younger brother of the prestigious family, leading others into battle, taking responsibility for every life lost or damaged.

He snorted at the idea.

“Ooh, something’s funny, then? Do share, I could do with a laugh!”

He scowled at the speaker, the nurse who’d happened by his bed with her arms full of soiled laundry and a shy smile on her lips. Lips that were too thin, just as her breasts were too small, at least for his taste. Not that he had a particular ‘taste’ unless it was for illicit substances injected into his body…he glanced up to see that the nurse was still waiting, her smile a bit nervous now as she awkwardly shifted her arm-load in order to free up one hand. She tucked a loose strand of cinnamon-colored hair beneath her neatly pinned cap, and he placed an ingratiating smile on his lips.

“It’s not funny, exactly,” he said. “More ironic.” He winced, exaggerating the motion as he hovered one hand over his bandaged leg. Someone – Mycroft, no doubt – had informed the doctors of his insalubrious habits, which meant that morphine was strictly doled out to him even with a bullet in his leg, but it was worth a try. “Damn this leg, sorry.” He winced again. “Do you think you could…?” He allowed his voice to trail off and managed a fairly decent pleading expression.

Her nervousness vanished, and her expression softened into sympathy. “Oh, yes, of course, I’ll just…” She gestured toward the bundle of soiled sheets, then scuttled off. Sherlock smirked and laid back, his arms crossed beneath his head. She’d be an easy one to manipulate: she was clearly attracted to him, younger than him by a good four years, which made her barely twenty-one. An only child, no close family or friends, her French likely on the ‘barely passable’ side…someone beneath Mycroft’s notice, under the radar. Mousy. Malleable. Forgettable. His smirk widened. _Perfect_.

Five minutes later she returned, with a tray in her hands and a friendly smile on her lips. He noticed how her eyes drifted over his body, which he’d taken care to arrange in as artful a manner as could be managed. When she laid the tray carefully on the low bedside table, however, his insincere smile vanished. He scowled up at her. “What’s this?”

“Something to take your mind off the pain,” she replied, nodding at the folded newspaper (three days old), book on bee-keeping (written in French, at least fifty years old, lovingly treated, one of her personal possessions) and – thank God, something useful! – a packet of cigarettes. Russian, he noted with a note of approval that managed to peek through his disgruntlement.

“I’d rather have something to take the pain off my leg,” he retorted, turning his head toward the wall.

“And I’d rather be back in London with my cat curled up on my lap and Clemence Dane’s novel _Regiment of Women_ in my hand, but unfortunately we can’t always get what we want, Captain Holmes.”

Sherlock turned his head in order to stare up at her. She was still clearly nervous, but there was an unexpected steel beneath her pliable exterior. A rather…interesting unexpected steel. He carefully sat up, allowing her to adjust the pillows behind his back and hand him the cigarettes. He lit one, still studying her closely, taking note of the blush his examination raised in her cheeks as well as the stubborn tilt to her chin. “My brother?” he asked after taking a few satisfying inhalations.

She shrugged. “I’ve no idea. All I do know is that your morphine is to be strictly rationed, although your chart also notes that non-narcotic methods of pain and boredom-relief are acceptable. Since I have no other medical options available to me, I thought that a variety of distractions might do until you’re allowed another dose.”

He gauged her determination; he could drive her away, make cruel comments about her thin lips and insufficient bosom, but something stayed his voice. Instead, he found himself thanking her – thanking her! – for her consideration. He even picked up the book, intent on pretending to immerse himself in it and thus allow her to return to her other duties.

To his surprise, he actually found the book utterly absorbing. When he looked up after an hour’s reading, he was vaguely surprised to find that she’d done exactly as he’d expected her to do and left to finish her shift. What was not so expected was the way he found himself missing her, after only two brief conversations.

He shook his head. Clearly the lack of drugs in his system was affecting him more strongly than he’d thought. “Sentiment,” he said with a shake of his head.

But he read the entire book twice before reluctantly returning it to her on the eve of his discharge.

_Six Months Later (September 1917)_

“Captain Holmes! It’s lovely to see you again…erm, sorry! That’s not what I meant…I just meant that if it wasn’t for the fact that you’ve been wounded again, it would…be…lovely?”

He didn’t bother hiding his grin as she dug herself deeper, nor was he inclined to aid her floundering attempts at correcting her verbal faux pas. Not that he cared; it was lovely to see her as well, even if the circumstances were less than ideal. After a few more attempts she wisely gave it up, simply giving him an apologetic smile as she shifted the load of soiled bedding she was carrying (was he always destined to meet her when she was carrying laundry) so she could offer him her hand.

As he reached for it, however, she snatched it back, turning a very becoming shade of pink. “Oh, sorry! That was so thoughtless of me.” She glanced meaningfully at the bandages wrapped around his right palm and left three fingers (burns, nothing serious enough to impede his violin playing as he would discover upon his return to London). “You must think I’m a complete ninny,” she said ruefully.

“Not at all,” he assured her. And meant it. He thought she was charmingly flustered, but hardly a ninny. “I do hope you still have that volume on bee-keeping for me to read again?”

“Oh yes, it’s just in my lunch basket, I’ll fetch it after I take care of these.” She nodded at the dirty linens. There was a definite sensation of déjà vu at this meeting, but this time with no falsity to his emotions. Even the craving for morphine was lessened in her presence, as if she were enough to keep his unfortunate proclivities at bay. Interesting; something to ponder while he awaited her return.

At the end of this stay in hospital, he’d extracted from her the promise to write, and the three letters that made their way to him were carefully tucked into his inside jacket pocket at all times. He’d even managed to write back to her, much to the amusement of his friend John Watson. The medical officer had far too pawky a sense of humor for Sherlock’s taste, but he endured it, considering it only fair since he’d spent more than his fair share of time mocking John’s love life.

Nine months later the two men were both injured in the same battle – John badly enough that he was invalided out of the army and would spend the remainder of his life walking with a cane, Sherlock with a bullet to the shoulder. And this time when he found himself being tended to by Nurse Hooper, he made sure to indicate the direction of his feelings for her…but only after carefully observing her for signs that she reciprocated those feelings.

Upon receiving her agreement that he might call upon her after his return to London, he felt much lighter of heart than he had in years.

And then, of course, Mycroft had to stick his stupid nose into things and spoil it all.

_London, 1919_

“Are you certain you actually wish to find her, little brother?”

Sherlock ground his back teeth and manfully resisted the urge to demonstrate his hard-earned combat skills on his elder sibling. The condescension in his voice was precisely calculated to elicit just such a response; would this ridiculous need to goad one another never end?

Not tonight, it would seem. Mycroft continued in the same vein, and Sherlock continued to not punch him in the face as he said, “You’re not at war any longer. Are you sure it’s the woman you want, or just access to the morphine she administered to you?”

Sherlock gave his brother a black look. “I’ve fought that particular devil and won, Mycroft. This isn’t about addiction or even gratitude, and you know it. It’s about something you abhor: sentiment. Sorry, but your advice about caring not being an advantage seems to have lost its power now that I’ve spent the past several years seeing how dangerous _not_ caring can be.”

Mycroft looked at him for a long minute, before giving a brief dip of his head in acknowledgement of his brother’s determination. “Miss Hooper has been led to believe that your interest in her was purely due to proximity. This belief has led to her current status as the fiancée of one Mr. Thomas Rodgers.” Mycroft scribbled down an address on a sheet of paper, but held it back when Sherlock reached for it. “I have it on good authority that if she is informed of her misapprehension, she will terminate her current relationship. I therefore advise you to be very certain of your intentions, brother mine.”

“My intentions are to make her a part of our family,” Sherlock snapped, snatching the piece of paper from his brother’s hand. “I should have known you were the reason she was whisked away from France to parts unknown while I was in my final recovery.” He twitched his shoulder as if to remind Mycroft of the location of that last wound, and his brother briefly lowered his eyes in acknowledgement - of the wound itself or his complicity in separating Sherlock from Nurse Hooper, his brother neither knew nor cared.

The only thing that mattered was that he finally had a way to contact the woman he’d fallen in love with. Whether or not she would be as pleased to see him as he hoped she would be remained to be seen…but Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not persistent.

That persistence paid off two days later, when he found himself on her doorstep. She’d left nursing at her fiancée’s insistence (more proof that the man was an utter idiot), and Sherlock resolved to convince her to return to a profession that, in spite of the horrors of war, she’d clearly loved. Even if he couldn’t convince her to leave her fiancée; even if she refused to believe that Sherlock loved her and wanted her to marry HIM…he would convince her of that one thing, to go back to work and make her life as happy and fulfilling as she deserved it to be.

He knocked, and the door opened. Her expression went from polite curiosity to complete surprise…and then joy as she dropped the basket of laundry she was carrying and brought her hands up to cover her mouth. “Sherlock...” she breathed, as if not entirely he was actually standing in front of her.

“Molly,” he replied, his voice a bit gruffer than he’d intended, the product of steadfastly NOT noticing how choked up he’d become at the mere sight of her.

“You made it back, thank God,” she blurted out. “Sherlock…Captain Holmes…”

“Sherlock,” he corrected her, removing his hat from his head and tucking it under his arm. “I forgive you for not noticing the civilian attire, just as I hope you will forgive me for not finding you sooner. _Someone_ ,” he scowled at the thought of his brother, “apparently believed we would be better off parted. I can assure you, Molly, that someone was not me.”

She managed a tremulous smile. “I never believed it...I mean, yes, I suppose I did or I’d have waited, but I was led to believe that I’d only be in the way of your future. A reminder of the horrors you’d experienced and the need for...well, a reminder of things best left forgotten,” she corrected herself in mid-sentence. “Are you here to tell me...why _are_ you here?” she asked in a near whisper. But there was hope, in her eyes and her voice, in the very set of her trembling lips, in the way her knuckles showed white where she clutched the door-knob as if it were the only thing keeping her on her feet.

“For you, Molly Hooper,” he replied, daring to reach out and brush his fingertips along her cheek, to cup her face in his hand. “No matter what you might have been told, you do count and I’ve always…loved you.”

The kiss they shared was impulsive, sweet, and far too brief for his liking, but he understood why she had to break it off so quickly.

After all, she had a former fiancé to return a ring to…and a new fiancé to receive one from. For that, he was content to wait.


End file.
